Between Heaven and Hell
by Alexandra Lyman
Summary: A Hook/Emma angel/demon AU. They hide in plain sight, the servants of heaven and hell. The angels and the demons, who can save your soul or damn it. They stand on opposite sides, they are the bringers of light and the agents of darkness, they are enemies in an eternal war, but what happens when an angel and a demon are inexplicably drawn to each other?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:**

**So this is a Captain Swan angel/demon AU. Various other OUAT characters will also be worked into this in various ways. It's certainly Catholic-inspired, but with various liberties taken for the sake of the story. If you like it, reviews would be grand, if you don't, no harm, no foul. It's going to be different from some of the other stuff I've written - but I like the idea and hope some of you will too! Mature content.**

**This will primarily be set in the present day, but the prologue takes place in the past and there will be some flashback scenes throughout the fic as well.**

**Any Latin words are from Google Translate - apologies for any errors, I'm just going with a literal word-to-word translation.**

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><p><strong>Between Heaven and Hell<strong>

**Prologue**

_"Remember tonight, for it is the beginning of always"_

_Dante Alighieri_

**Rome - May 6, 1527**

_God has forsaken us._

The thought came unbidden to her panicked mind and the horror of the realization overwhelmed her. It was true, there was no other explanation for how the holy city could have fallen to the Emperor's troops, barbarous men who had scaled the walls and broken down the gates and were now running rampant in the streets, indulging in a violent orgy of mass destruction and deranged debauchery, the likes of which had never been seen in living memory.

They dragged men of the cloth from the pulpits and stripped them naked on the steps of their churches, whipping them to ribbons and staining the stone with rivers of blood. The convents were ransacked, the brides of Christ degraded and violated in their cells and their throats slit, pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears, prayers unanswered. The city was burning, none were spared, from babes in arms to the elderly and infirm, from prostitutes to priests, beggars to nobles. It was wholesale slaughter on an unprecedented scale, as the devil took hold in the form of the bloodthirsty soldiers and the angels fled. Even His Holiness was gone, spirited away under cover of night while his loyal Swiss Guard was massacred under the great stone shadow of St. Peter's dome.

The last defenders of Rome were gone, God had abandoned them as surely as the Medici pope, Clement VII, to meet their fate.

Sister Maria Anna fingered the rosary beads hanging at her waist. There was no comfort now in the familiar ritual of the Pater Noster prayer, God was no longer listening to His children trapped in His city. She let the beads fall back down and huddled closer to her three companions, the only ones left of their order. They had been lucky, managing to find hiding spaces in the abbey when the soldiers broke down the barricaded door and dragged the others off. The four of them had spent agonizing hours in their cramped refuge, expecting the soldiers to return and find them at any moment, before they escaped unseen when the night finally fell. Maria Anna had grown up in the city, unlike most of her sisters, and knew well the back alleys and hidden lanes that wound like a giant maze around the open squares where the worst of the rioting and carnage was taking place. Their dark habits blended into the shadows, the starched white wimples discarded lest they draw any light from the soldiers' torches and lanterns. But the night wouldn't last forever, and just as she despaired of finding any hope of sanctuary in the fallen city, Sister Maria Katherina grasped her arm and pointed with a hissed, "Look!"

A single candle in a fogged window, a beacon, and a woman behind it, beckoning to the frightened nuns with a smile that somehow eased Maria Anna's frantically beating heart.

The woman led them into the silent house, to a room at the rear of the long and narrow abode as far from the street as possible and doused the candle. Before the tiny light winked out Maria Anna had seen a rich gold satin dress, a heavy fall of unbound wheaten hair and green eyes in a white face, with a serenity that was woefully out of place in the depths of the hell to which they had all descended. But somehow, under the woman's guiding hand she felt the tiniest flicker of hope, and her fingers found the jet beads and the silver cross once more. Perhaps her prayer had not gone unheard after all.

Mingled shouts and cries came from outside, carrying through the thin walls. Maria Theresa had her head buried in Maria Anna's shoulder and her whole body shook with fear, the young novitiate was just eleven and had witnessed atrocities no child should see.

There was a rustle of satin and the woman's voice whispered, "You will be safe here, I will see to it."

Her hand found Maria Anna's and gave a reassuring squeeze. There was a brief tingle in her palm at the woman's touch and she felt a warm breeze brush against her cold cheek, reminding her of days when the sun shone through the leaded panes of stained glass in the abbey. The soldiers had broken the windows, the shards of red and blue and yellow scattering across the floor and ground to dust under their boots.

The sound of creaking wood and heavy footfalls from elsewhere in the house, so like a soldier's arrogant stride, made her breath catch in her throat. Maria Theresa cried out and Maria Anna clapped a hand over her mouth but the damage was done. The steps came closer and the door to the small room was pushed open, a light appearing from the other side. It came from a lantern, held aloft by a man dressed all in black, with hair like a raven's wing and eyes as blue as the Virgin's cloak. But there was no warmth in his gaze, his smile was that of a wolf who had spotted weak prey, and Maria Anna pressed back against the wall behind her.

"Well," the man spoke in a voice that was low and laced with amusement, "What a surprise. It seems that not all of the blessed ones have fled."

The soft yellow light swung across the woman and illuminated the serene smile that did not waver in the face of the threatening figure. She responded in an equally low voice, but her conviction rang clear in each word, "You can't touch them. Their souls are innocent."

He looked over the woman's shoulder and his eyes met Maria Anna's. She flinched back, feeling something cold prod against her skin, a sudden sharp chill that swept over her and made her feel like she had been fully stipped bare and every inch examined head to toe in that brief look. Maria Theresa sagged against her, the girl had fainted right away.

Lips curled back over white teeth and his tongue ran across them, "I can't, but there's plenty out there who can. There will be no innocent souls left in Rome when the army is through, they've lost all reason and the depravity is shocking, even by my standards."

_God save us,_ she prayed silently in her head while her knees threatened to give out and only Maria Theresa's weight against her was still keeping her upright.

The woman took a step forward, she was clearly unafraid of the dark haired man even as Maria Anna desperately fought the urge to flee from his dark voice and piercing gaze.

"Is that why you're here?" the woman asked, "Seeking out these few who've managed to escape the spread of evil?"

His eyes found them again briefly and she shuddered while she sought out the rosary beads with her free hand and rolled them in her fingers.

_Deliver us from evil._

"No," the man answered, looking back at the woman's face again, "It's not them that drew me here, it's you. The city has gone dark tonight but your light still shines. I was curious as to who could have stayed behind."

Silence reigned for a long moment, the light from the lantern flickering over them and throwing strange shadows on the walls. The man and the woman stared at each other, seemingly locked in an unspoken battle of wills.

He was the one who seemed to concede, stepping back with a shake of his head, "You should leave now, blessed one. Rome has fallen and you know what will be coming to revel in the defilement of the holy. Your light will call out to them as it did to me. Save yourself while you still have the chance."

The woman turned and drew her gaze slowly over Maria Anna and the others. A sad smile lifted her lips, "No. They are innocent and I have sworn to protect them. I can't leave them."

Maria Anna found her voice at last, "If you can escape the city, dear lady, you must go. Worry not for us."

Maria Katherina was reciting a desperate prayer with her eyes closed and her crucifix clutched in her hands, Maria Johanna was frozen in place, her eyes wide and terrified, and Maria Theresa had roused from her faint and was sobbing quietly, face still buried in Maria Anna's shoulder.

"How appallingly noble," the man scoffed, "You have no idea what's coming for you, Sister."

His face was handsome but hard, as if it had been carved from marble. There was something about the man that she couldn't quite place, he didn't have the look of a native Roman, nor that of the Emperor's Germanic troops. He was not garbed as a cleric, was obviously not a peasant, his bearing was proud and noble but he was like no lord she had ever seen. Maria Anna felt both repulsed and intrigued, her mind swirling with sudden images of being laid out naked underneath him and forswearing her vows, giving in to every forbidden carnal urge and fornicating madly until her soul was damned to the eternal fires.

She wrenched her eyes away from his with a gasp, frantically pushing the thoughts away and clutching her silver cross so hard it bit deeply into her palm. Maria Anna heard a dark chuckle and she could feel his gaze still on her.

"Innocence never lasts," he said, "Why risk yourself on a futile endeavour?"

"It's not something I'd expect you to understand," the woman replied tartly, "Come, Sisters, we must find a way out of the city."

"There's only one way out now. You wouldn't last five minutes on the streets at this point. If you insist on this foolishness and refuse to ascend, then you must head down below. Follow me, I will guide you out of Rome."

The woman turned back to him with a swirl of her satin skirts and she sounded as incredulous as Maria Anna felt, "Follow you? You are going to assist my futile endeavour? Why should I possibly believe that?"

He moved in the blink of an eye, standing toe to toe with the woman and staring down at her. Maria Anna's heart beat painfully in her chest, she was chilled to the bone with fear and she wanted to snatch the woman back and pull her away from the man who loomed over her, a dark spectre who seemed to fill the room and somehow terrified her more than the thought of the Emperor's entire army surrounding the house. But she couldn't move, she was rooted right to the spot.

"You really shouldn't, but what do you have to lose, blessed one?" he asked with a grin.

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><p>The old catacombs that wormed their way under the city like veins of quartz in rock were silent save for the footsteps of the strange group. The man led the way, the light from his lantern flickering on the soft brown bones of ancient martyrs and saints, the empty dark hollows that had once been eyes watching from the niches in the walls that were their final resting place. She said a prayer for their immortal souls and begged their forgiveness for disturbing their eternal rest. The four nuns had all joined hands lest one falter, shuffling forward on the uneven jumble of stone and earth under their feet.<p>

The woman walked just behind the man with unerring steps, her back straight and her head high. Whenever Maria Anna's despair threatened to overwhelm her, fearing that they would never find their way out of the underground tombs, the woman seemed to sense her fear and would turn her head and smile reassuringly,

"Just a little farther," she whispered.

Maria Anna didn't even know the woman's name, there had been no time to ask, but she gave a prayer of thanks in her head for her assistance and steady, calming presence.

She couldn't bring herself to add the man to her prayer, even as he found tiny passageways that were nearly hidden in the gloom and connected the various chambers. Some were so narrow they had to be traversed sideways, creeping through one by one with the stale air burning their lungs and leaving a rancid taste in the back of their throats. Every time it seemed they could go no farther, the man would find a way to press on, his long ringed fingers probing the walls and pointing the way. Maria Anna had no idea why he was helping them or why the woman had accepted his assistance, or even why she and her sisters were following them both.

"He is leading us straight into _infernum_," Maria Johanna muttered at one point, "Right to the gates to deliver is to the devil himself."

The man must have heard her, he laughed and the lantern swung around, "Welcome to infernum, Sister."

Maria Johanna flinched, her mouth set in a thin line when his eyes landed on her and the nuns all froze as one.

"Shall I lead you there? Are you perhaps curious as to whether or not the descriptions in your holy scriptures are true? Do you wish to touch the eternal fire and see if really burns? All you have to do is say the word."

The images flashed behind Maria Anna's lids, of writhing with ecstasy in the flames with his hands on her flesh, tearing it right from her bones and devouring her whole.

"This one is considering it."

She opened her eyes and he was looking right at her with a cold and devious smile. Her fingers groped for her rosary and found only empty air.

"Stop. It."

The woman stepped in front of Maria Anna and blocked her view of the man.

He sounded amused, "Do you still think they're worth the risk?"

"If I didn't, would I still be here?"

Where could she go? Maria Anna wondered. There was no turning back now, nowhere to go except to follow the man, wherever he was leading them. Salvation or damnation, the light from the woman's candle or the darkness in the man's eyes. He reached out as if to touch the woman's face, but paused and only flicked a strand of her hair back over her shoulder.

"What about you, blessed one? Do you think I'm leading you all astray, my little lambs to the slaughter?"

The woman shook her head, "No. You could, but I don't think you are, infernal one."

He sucked in a whistling breath between his teeth, "Interesting. One of your kind trusting me. On what basis did I manage to earn your trust?"

"You didn't. I don't trust you, but I have faith."

The man laughed, "An unshakable faith, I see. Well, come along then, we're almost there. I am not taking you to hell, dear Sisters, I shall guide you back to the path to caelo, though you will excuse me if I go no farther than that."

He pressed on, kicking aside the bones that were scattered across the floor with careless disregard. Maria Anna couldn't move, she could scarcely think, there was nothing in her head excerpt that terrible graven image that he had put there. Would the flames burn her? She almost wanted to know.

"Sister."

The woman's white face loomed in front of her out of the dark, she grasped Maria Anna's hands and the rosary, pressing the cross into her palm. As it had before, the woman's touch seemed to impart a strength, a sense of calm and peace even in the tiny cavern of crumbling bones deep underneath the earth.

"You do not wish to go down that path, Sister. Follow him, but do not look into his eyes."

"What is he?" Maria Anna whispered, "What are you?"

The woman didn't answer directly, she just smiled and said, "Someone who heard a prayer."

When they finally emerged into the faint dawning light of the sunrise, outside the city walls, the four nuns all took in great gasping breaths, eager to rid their lungs of the dust and decay from their long trek through the hidden realm of the dead. They had come up through the undercroft of an old chapel that was now a near ruin, only two stone walls still standing. Green shoots rose from between the broken stone slabs that had once made up the floor, the man hefted back the one he had shoved aside with the woman's assistance, covering up the narrow steps they had just climbed.

"Come, we can't tarry here. We must get as far away from Rome as possible," the woman urged, pulling the exhausted nuns back to their feet.

"Head south," the man advised. Maria Anna was careful to keep her gaze lowered and avoided looking at his face. She saw the woman's skirt move, the heavy folds of gold satin sweeping across the weathered stones where the worshippers had once knelt to pray.

"Why?" she asked, "A veritable feast for you in the city last night and you turned it away and brought four innocents to safety. A strange action to say the least, infernal one."

His voice was low but Maria Anna could still hear each word, "Oh, I didn't do it for them, blessed one. Now, in return for my generous assistance, I have one simple request. Tell me your name."

She chanced a glance up and saw surprise on the woman's face, the first time her serenity had faltered and faded.

"I shall tell you mine," he encouraged when she remained silent.

"Emma."

She said it with some reluctance, taking a step back from him.

"Emma," the man repeated, and something in his voice made Maria Anna shiver. He spoke the name as a caress, a whisper, a promise and gave a courtly bow, bending low at the waist with a sweep of his short cloak.

"My name is Killian. Remember that, for I think we shall meet again one day. But I shall take my leave of you now. The delights of Rome still await, I may have missed out on some of the fun but there is plenty of amusement left. The army won't be satisfied with one night, it shall continue for weeks if not months and they may wind up burning the holy city right to the ground."

"And you will be there to stoke the flames."

"We all serve our purpose. Farewell, Emma. The light that did not flee the darkness. It was truly a pleasure."

He drew the word "pleasure" out obscenely, and then he was gone.

The other three started towards the road that led away from the city, but Maria Anna stayed behind and grabbed Emma's sleeve.

"What was he?" she asked again, fearing the answer.

Emma's voice was clipped, "A corrupter. One who can take your soul and twist it into something very dark, if you let him. Do not think of him after this day and never ever speak his name."

Maria Anna blinked, "What are you?"

The gentle smile returned, "Dear Isabella, you know what I am."

The use of her long disused birth name stunned Maria Anna into silence.

They left Rome behind. The pillage continued for months on end as the Emperor's troops occupied the city and thousands upon thousands died. The Pope was humiliated and forced to grovel for mercy under the Emperor's boot, paying ransom and ceding lands and territories to the Hapsburg king.

And for the rest of her life Maria Anna lit a candle every day and said a prayer of thanks for the angel who had appeared when the city fell and saved her and her three sisters, for she knew now that was what the woman was.

_"Gratia, tibi beata angela, Emma." _"Thank you, blessed angel, Emma."

As for the dark haired demon who had also appeared and helped lead them from the city that night, she heeded the angel's warning. He had tempted her soul once but she would not give him the chance to lead her into sin and damnation again.

Maria Anna could not truly forget him, but she never spoke his name.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Present Day_**

He strode down the hall with what he hoped was a confident stride, his shoulders back and his head high.

This was everything he had been waiting for.

Will raised his hand and rapped quickly on the door. While he waited nervously for a response he straightened the knot in his tie and fiddled with his cuffs, hoping that he would pass muster with the boss. He wasn't used to wearing a suit and the jacket felt too tight in the shoulders while the blasted tie kept threatening to strangle him. But the boss had high standards for his employees and the wardrobe upgrade was mandatory if Will wanted to impress him. No more jeans and motorcycle boots, at least while he was on the clock. Now it was buttoned-up waistcoats and proper Windsor knots, far from the most comfortable thing to be wearing considering it was nearly ten at night, but he knew going in that this gig was not going to be a nine to five life.

"Enter."

His palms were sweating and he wiped his hand quickly on his trouser leg before opening the door and taking one cautious step inside. The boss was sitting behind his desk with his dark head bent down to his laptop. It was the closest Will had ever been to the man and the first time he had ever been alone with him. It had taken him nearly four years of hard work and hustle to make his way up in the organization to a coveted place in the inner circle that surrounded Mr. Jones. But he had done it, he received his well earned promotion and had been welcomed into the boss's own home, a posh two-level penthouse condo smack dab in the best area of town.

Will looked around the office with interest. The desk was large, made of dark hardwood topped with a slab of gleaming black marble and completely bare save for the sleek Macbook. There was a deep leather sofa and two leather-backed chairs, all also black. Behind the desk was a wall of glass, a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the lights of the city below, the city the boss ruled with an iron fist from the shadows.

"Will Scarlet, isn't it?"

He nearly jumped at the question and his eyes flew back to where Mr. Jones was now standing up from behind the desk, looking at him with one eyebrow raised.

"Yes, sir," he answered quickly.

It was almost impossible to look right at him. The times Will had watched him from a distance had not prepared him for what it would feel like to have the boss watch him. The blue eyes were unsettling, as cold as glacier ice and they seemed to hold Will in place and see straight into him. It was as if the boss knew everything about him, all his darkest secrets, everything he had done to get here, scratching, clawing his way up, all the people he had stepped on (figuratively and literally) on the way.

"So?" Mr. Jones asked archly when the silence stretched on too long.

_Come on Will, get it together. He's not a bloody mind reader, stop acting like the village idiot._

"There's a woman here to see you," he managed to explain.

Woman wasn't the right word, she was a _vision_. But Mr. Jones appeared indifferent, looking back down at the laptop and tapping something on the keyboard.

"The auditions are tomorrow morning at eleven. I'm not making any exceptions. Tell her to go to the club and to bring her own music."

For some reason Will didn't think the woman downstairs had come to wrangle a private "tryout" with the owner of the city's most high end gentleman's club.

"I don't think she's here for that. She said to tell you, uh, salve de cabo? No, sorry, salve de-"

"Caelo?" the boss supplied, his head jerking back up as he leaned forward with his knuckles on the desk and his tone sharpening with interest, "Was it perchance salve de caelo?"

"That's it!" Will exclaimed, "Er, is that Spanish?"

The laptop was snapped shut and he ran a hand down the sleeve of his jacket, flicking off a non-existent piece of lint. The boss's suit was impeccable, perfectly tailored, dark charcoal with a matching dress shirt and a royal blue silk pocket square. Will's suit hadn't been cheap, but the boss's probably cost more money than most people made in a month.

"Salve is Latin. It means "greetings" and it's her way of saying hello. Send her in."

_Latin?_ Will wondered as he padded back down the hall and descended the staircase that led to the condo's main level. _Who on earth used Latin to say hello?_ The Pope probably did, but a gorgeous blonde who had come to visit the boss himself, Mr. Jones?

She was waiting patiently in the vestibule where he had left her and her skyscraper heels clicked on the tiled floor when Will beckoned her forward and tried his best to sound official, "Mr. Jones will see you."

"I told you he would," she replied with a smile that Will couldn't help returning. She was stunningly beautiful, her hair hanging in loose waves halfway down her back and dressed in a short strapless column of pristine white that clung to a spectacular body. She carried no purse or bag and he supposed he should frisk her and make sure she didn't have a gun or other weapon under her dress, but where would she even put it? He didn't think there was any room under the dress for knickers, let alone anything else, and the thought suddenly made his trousers very tight.

"I'm not armed," she said as if she knew what he was thinking. She walked past him, throwing him a wink and brushing her manicured hand lightly over his chest. Will inhaled deep and frowned, whatever perfume she was wearing, it was oddly familiar. She smelled like sweet incense and heavy beeswax and dark wine, he vaguely remembered that combination of scents from the Sundays he had spent at church with his gran, all those Masses he had sat through at her side before she passed and the streets had beckoned him away from home.

He blinked and scrambled ahead of her, leading the way to the boss's office even though she obviously knew where she was going. Will opened the door again and cleared his throat, "Mr. Jones, your visitor, uh-" damn, he hadn't even asked the woman her name to announce her properly.

The blonde stepped into the office with another dazzling smile, "Hello, Killian."

Will felt the blood drain right out of his face. The boss was a stickler for protocol and no one ever called him by his first name. Of course everyone knew it, but on the streets and in the bars and the clubs and the casinos he was always, "boss", "sir", or "Mr. Jones", to his face, and even behind his back no one was brave enough to call him Killian.

No one _dared._

He was certain that something very bad was going to happen, the boss was going to flip his lid at the woman's audacity, but when Will mustered the courage to look at him he felt like he was witnessing a miracle.

Mr. Jones was smiling. And it wasn't one of those smiles that wasn't really a smile, where the lips tilted up but there was no warmth or emotion behind it. No, this was a real smile, a genuine expression of pleasure at the blonde's greeting and he spoke in a voice that was unlike anything Will had ever heard from him before, it was low and familiar and intimate.

"Hello love. Salve de inferno."

The woman walked forward and the boss came around the desk to meet her, taking her gently by the upper arms and brushing a kiss on each cheek. He looked up over her shoulder and the blue eyes narrowed at Will.

"That will be all. Leave us."

He flicked his wrist dismissively and Will nodded at the order, backing out of the office and pulling the door shut as he went.

He had seen the boss with women before, from his booth in the club they had been summoned with a crook of his finger and he frequently disappeared with them into the private back room. All were the very definition of sexy, long-legged, large-breasted knockouts that Will would give his right arm for the chance to fuck. But even when they were draped all over the boss, practically sucking him off right in the booth, his face had always been impassive and cold. Will had certainly never seen Mr. Jones smile at any of the dancers the way he smiled at her when she walked in.

Will hovered outside the door. _It's not what you know, it's who you know._ The blonde and the boss obviously knew each other and whoever she was, she was clearly someone important. Knowledge was always power and he should find out whatever he could about her and how exactly she was connected to the cold and ruthless Mr. Killian Jones.

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><p>"Emma. To what do I owe the pleasure?"<p>

She sat down in the chair he indicated and crossed her legs, watching Killian's eyes trail up her thigh as her dress rode up and exposed a generous swath of bare skin. She didn't bother pulling it back down, she simply folded her hands in her lap and stated the reason for her visit, "I came to ask a favour."

He perched against the desk and spread his hands open, "I'm all ears."

She held up a finger and tilted her head, "Your man is listening at the door."

His eyes narrowed and he stared hard at the wood. They both heard the startled yelp of pain from the other side.

"Scarlet! You're dismissed for the night!"

There was the sound of footsteps beating a hasty retreat and Killian shrugged, "He's new."

Emma rested her shoulders back in the chair, feeling the whisper of butter soft leather slide like a caress against her skin. Killian looked down at her and she held out her hand, a photograph appearing in her palm. He picked it up, letting his thumb brush the inside of her wrist. The image was that of a rosy-cheeked teenage girl, with soft brown eyes and a hesitant smile.

Young.

_Innocent._

"She's fifteen," Emma began, "Comes from a small town, she loves her parents and her little sister, but it's quiet and kind of boring. So she goes online and meets this older guy. He says all the right things, that he loves her, that he's her Prince Charming and knight in shining armour and he'll take care of her forever and convinces her to run away from home."

"Reeled her in with that old fairy tale?" Killian said, "But somehow I think she didn't find happily ever after or you wouldn't be here."

She continued on, "Everything's great for the first month. But then he starts to get a little mean, a little aggressive, starts talking about how she owes him for the food she eats, the roof over her head. He took all her money for "safekeeping" when she got to town, and she's too scared and ashamed to call her parents, who are worried sick about her, by the way. Anyway to make a long story short the asshole is forcing her to audition for your club tomorrow."

He tilted his head and smiled, "And this is where the favour comes in?"

Emma met his eye, "Can you have someone take her to the train station and buy her a ticket to go back home? There's a train at 12:30 and her parents will be there to pick her up at the other end. She wants to go, she just thinks it's too late."

He held up the photo by the edges, looking not at the pretty face or the coltish body hinted at under the oversized hoodie, but at the little wayward soul that was about to cross his path. The girl had already had a taste of darkness, he could claim her easily for his side and mould her however he wished. It was a tempting prospect, but he never refused Emma a favour.

"What about the asshole boyfriend?" he asked, lowering the photo.

Emma uncrossed her legs and crossed them back the other way, baring her other thigh, "He's all yours. He's taking her to the audition to make sure she doesn't back out. Take him and do whatever you want."

"What it is I do best, you mean," Killian said. The edges of the photo curled in and began to blacken and smoulder. The paper caught and the flames burned away the girl's face, the smell of smoke filling the air until the picture was completely gone and he flicked away the small pile of ash off his hand and into nothingness, "For you? Consider it done."

She dipped her head in a grateful nod, "Thank you."

He gave a brilliant smile, "Well, since that's settled, do you fancy a drink?" and pushed off the desk, heading over to the large built in wall unit that ran the length of the office on one side. He opened a cabinet and retrieved two heavy old-fashioned lead crystal glasses and a bottle of rare fifty year old Scotch.

Handing one of the drinks to Emma, he sat down on the sofa. He crossed his leg over his knee and raised his glass to her, his gaze going to her thigh again, "But you hardly needed to come all the way here to ask me that in person, love. A little favour like that? You could have just called."

Emma set her tumbler down on his desk and stood up, moving to stand in front of him with a slow, deliberate sway of her hips. They both knew why she hadn't simply called.

"Well, maybe I wanted to see you in person."

Their eyes locked and she lifted the drink from his hand, setting it aside. Emma trailed a finger against his neck, scoring a faint red line into his skin with her pink nail. She leaned over him with her other hand braced on the back of the sofa, dipping into the open collar of his shirt and pressing against the hollow of his throat. He made a low noise and slid his hands over the softly flared hips, cupping her ass and pulling her into his lap.

"Oh, I've missed you, blessed one," he said.

Their lips met in a soft slide, gentle, light brushes that could almost be called chaste, in sharp contrast to the grind of her open thighs over where he was starting to strain against his cashmere trousers. Killian grabbed the front of her dress and drew her down against his chest, leaving sooty black fingerprints on her breasts that faded instantly into her skin without a trace.

Emma cupped his face, her fingers tracing over the dark stubble on his cheeks and chin. His mouth opened and her tongue met his, the sweet ambrosia of her taste sliding down his throat. It was like honey and champagne and the freshest, ripest fruit and was more intoxicating than any other substance he had ever known.

There was a great tearing sound and her pretty white dress was ripped open from neckline to hem.

"You are so impatient, infernal one," she said against his mouth, swatting his shoulder.

"You love it," he shot back, "And look who's talking. You didn't even let me finish my drink first, and do you know how much that stuff costs?"

He slid his hands over her thighs and wrapped his arms around her back, standing up. The drink was left behind, he didn't really care about the wasted Scotch any more than she cared about the ruined dress on the floor.

His office was connected to the master bedroom by a pocket door hidden behind a panel that blended in with the wall. It slid open as he approached it with Emma held easily in his arms. While he'd had plenty of women in his office, screwing them on his sofa, against his desk, and on the floor, his bedroom was off-limits to all save her.

As profane as he normally was, he did hold some things sacred.

The door slid back into place noiselessly, encasing them in the room. Like the rest of his condo, it was dominated by dark tones. The walls were painted a slate grey and the hardwood floor was stained almost black. He paused to kick off his shoes, and Emma also let her heels slip to the floor. The king sized bed featured an elaborate wrought-iron headboard that ran all the way up the wall to the ceiling and was centuries old, once part of a gate from the grounds of a French chateau. They fell to the mattress, Emma's lithe body like a spill of rich cream against the deep plum of the silk comforter. He laced their fingers together over her head and rutted his hips against her, knowing from long experience that the friction would torment her in the best of ways.

"Did you miss me?" he whispered in her ear, nipping at the lobe with his sharp teeth.

Her foot slid up his calf and she hooked her leg over his hip, using it to flip him onto his back. Her hair fell forward and spread a golden halo around his head.

"More than you know," she whispered back and he shuddered.

"You know there's an easy solution to that-" he started to say, only to be cut off by her hand covering his mouth.

"Don't," she warned.

Killian closed his eyes and nodded, falling silent. The hand left his lips and started trailing down. He tilted his head back, baring his neck to her and her fingers traced his throat. He could feel the golden fingerprints she was leaving behind, the little marks that should disfigure him like acid but never did. They simply sank into him and made him feel like he was being caressed by her both inside and out.

His clothing vanished as her hand went down his body, he was fully nude in an instant and he opened his eyes again and watched Emma settle herself between his spread legs. She looked up and gave him a smile that was the personification of purity and grace. It was a beatific smile, and it was that smile that had first drawn him to her instead of repelling him back the way it should have.

Then her pink tongue darted out and she licked a slow stripe up his cock, from base to tip, and his hips left the bed and his eyes slammed shut again.

"Fuck!" he hissed, "Bloody fucking _hell_, Emma!"

She took him in her mouth, sucking hard the way she knew he liked best. Her nails dug into his thighs, leaving more red marks and one of his hands clawed at the comforter while the other settled onto the top of her head, pushing her down on his cock while he thrust up. She hummed around him, tasting that dark rich essence that seeped from his skin and whispered of sin and unimaginable decadence. It was like the aged Scotch and rare steak and the bitterest chocolate. She shouldn't love the taste, it shouldn't make desire pool between her own legs, heady and slick, but it did.

He swelled that last little bit under her tongue, fully erect, and she let him slip from her mouth. Her hands skimmed over his hips and she crawled up his body, breasts brushing his chest and her fingers dancing over his ribs, which made him laugh.

"Just imagine if your new man knew that the big scary boss himself was ticklish," Emma murmured.

His hand shot to her wrist and he rolled them, putting himself back on top and spreading her legs open with his knee.

"Well, it'll be our secret," Killian said, looking down at her and pushing her hair back from her face, "Just like this."

Emma felt him shift his hips and he thrust forward sharply, making her back arch and her mouth fall open in a silent scream. She was more than wet enough for him but it was always a shock when he first buried himself inside of her. He burned between her legs and she could feel the flames licking her, threatening to consume her whole and turn her right to ash underneath him. But instead of his fire blackening her skin and setting it alight, there was no pain. He gave her nothing but warming pleasure, it spread out over her entire body from where they were joined together.

"Fuck," Killian muttered again, pressing his face into her neck, "It's been too fucking long without this, Emma."

She poked him in his side, "It's not like you've been celibate."

His head lifted and he stared down at her. He snapped his hips against her, making her moan while he spoke through gritted teeth, "It is not the same. It's not even close and you know that perfectly well."

She opened her legs wider and pulled him down, kissing him hard to shut him up. Killian gave in for a moment but then he lifted up on one arm, their lips breaking apart while he touched his thumb to her cheek. He looked straight into her eyes with an unblinking stare.

"My angel."

Emma looked away. Killian drew his hand over her face, cupping her chin and turning her head back to face him. He moved gently, the rise and fall of his body above her making her close her eyes and give in to the bliss that was slowly building under her skin. She felt his breath on her face, his large hands sweeping down the sides of her body, pulling her knee up so he could slide in deeper. She grasped his ass and pulled him in closer, squeezing him inside her and making a rough groan tear from his throat.

"Bloody vixen," he muttered.

"You love it," she replied with a lift of her hips that drew him right in to the hilt. He paused, throbbing inside her with his hips angled perfectly so that the slightest movement would send them both racing right to the edge.

"I do...I love your gorgeous body, every last inch of it. I love fucking you, I love it when you bite my neck and rip your nails down my back and make me bleed. I love having your luscious taste on my tongue and the feel of your beautiful wet cunt gripping my cock. I fucking love every second of it, Emma."

His voice was like silk despite the coarse words and it slithered right over her. Something curled deep inside her and tugged, urging her to give into the temptation he offered, to say yes to anything he asked and finally give him what she knew he wanted. Seductive bastard, he knew what he could do with that voice, it was one of his best weapons.

Killian moved in slow deep rolls, bringing them right to the brink while he whispered into her ear. He could feel the indecision in her and he put everything he could into his plea, "Fall, my beautiful angel. It's so easy, just let go and fall right into my arms. I'll be there to catch you, you know I will. Be with me, Emma."

But she fought back against his attempt to seduce her that way and shook her head, slipping out of the net he cast and he knew he had lost, "I can only give you this, Killian."

He growled in frustration and seized her hands, pinning them above her head. Emma's eyes flew open and then narrowed at him.

"Then you will give me all of it. All night," he demanded with a heavy thrust into her body. She normally didn't spend the whole night with him, it was dangerous for the both of them, but he didn't care.

Indecision crossed her face.

"Emma," he implored with a twist of his hips that made her gasp, "Give me that, at least. I did grant your favour after all."

Her eyes fluttered shut and she gave a small nod, "I'll stay the night."

Killian smiled in triumph, but it quickly turned to a look of surprise when Emma bucked her hips suddenly and rolled and he found himself on his back with her sitting astride him and pinning his wrists to the bed.

"But do you think you can last all night?" she murmured, leaning forward with her teeth scraping his neck and biting down gently on his shoulder.

He bent his knees for leverage and thrust up, "Is that a challenge?"

Emma circled her hips teasingly against him, "You bet your ass it is. If I'm going to give you all night you better make it worth my while, infernal one."

He felt her release his wrists and trail her fingers along his arms to his shoulders, where she braced her hands and sat up, taking him all the way back inside. He watched the gentle sway of her breasts as she moved, wanting to take them in his hands but not wanting to cover them from his gaze. He settled his hands on her hips instead.

"Challenge accepted, blessed one. I shall more than make it worth your while."

If she wouldn't fall the way he wanted, he would make her fall in other ways, and as many times as he could. He had all night, and he always relished a challenge. Killian planted his feet and winked at her. He lifted Emma up and slammed her back down onto him, gratified by the sharp cry she made. She reached up and gripped the bars of the headboard, riding him in earnest and he urged her on with filthy whispered praise.

He could feel her getting close, she was squeezing him painfully tight, clamped down hard on his cock. All of his nerve endings were firing, he was on the knife edge of pleasure and pain and he loved it, both sides of the blade. It hurt so good and Emma was flushed and panting above him, her head thrown back and the cries tumbling from her lips, curses and endearments that he matched in a hoarse voice. His fingers found her most sensitive spot and she went over the edge and brought him with her, waves of golden bliss rolling over him. As the pleasure crested his eyes slammed shut and from behind his closed lids he caught the briefest glimpse of a place that those like him were barred from. It was beautiful, filled with a light that attracted him but would destroy him if he ever actually touched it.

Emma collapsed against his chest and her hair spread over his shoulders. The light faded away and he opened his eyes again.

"Well?" he asked, feeling very pleased with himself, "Was it worth it so far?"

She lifted her head and looked down at him, "You're a smug bastard, you know that, right?"

"Aye, but I'm your smug bastard."

She leaned forward and brushed her lips over his. He was still buried inside of her and hadn't fully softened. She fluttered around him and he was hard as a rock again instantly.

"Show me what else you've got," she challenged with her own smug smile.

_Wicked angel._

"If the lady insists," he said, "But this time I'll stay on top."

She let out a laugh when he rolled them again.

* * *

><p>"So who's the new guy?"<p>

Emma turned onto her side and propped her head up on her hand. Killian lay on his back with the silk sheet pulled down low on his hips.

"Scarlet? He's a petty thief, a former gang member, and he's spent the last few years trying very hard to get my attention."

"What does he want?" she asked.

"What they all want...money...power...sex."

His hand slid along the curve of her waist.

"Men," she said dismissively.

He snorted, "Hypocrite."

She rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. His hand fell away but she could sense it lying on the mattress just the barest inch away from her.

"Who's the girl?" he asked.

"Just someone who said a prayer."

Her eyes closed. She had promised to stay the night but she should leave and she should leave now. As enticing as he always was, they were both playing with fire.

"Emma."

Turning her head on the pillow she saw Killian watching her. His eyes were dark in the dimly lit bedroom, his handsome face shadowed.

"Don't leave," the demon murmured, shifting closer. The sheet rippled and he settled above her, the long leg sliding against hers and his chest pressed against her breasts, "Please."

Lips found her neck and his hands joined with hers, fingers interlaced and holding her tight. She could easily slip from his arms if she wanted to and disappear where he couldn't follow her, but her legs were wrapping around his waist and her back was arching off the bed and into the scorching heat of his body.

One day she just might give in to him completely and walk straight into the flames.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author: I'm happy to see the interest in this little idea of mine, thank you for the lovely reviews of the first two parts!**

**Special shoutout to reviewer orwhatevereric'sintothesedays, who was kind enough to correct my Latin errors and has given me the translations for blessed one (beata) and infernal one (damnate). Thank you so much!**

**To the rest, I love getting reviews and thank you all for taking the time to comment on my story. To those who asked, there will be more flashback scenes of Emma and Killian in the past to show how their relationship has progressed from their meeting during the sack of Rome (a real historical event) to the present day.**

* * *

><p>Will looked up into the rearview mirror for what had to be the twentieth time in as many minutes. Mr. Jones was ensconced in the backseat and was still glued to his phone. From the moment he had left his bedroom he had been texting away, not throwing Will one glance during the whole ride down the elevator and into the parking garage. The boss had tossed him the keys to the SUV without looking up from the phone, giving a curt instruction to drive to the club.<p>

Will's fingers drummed quietly on the steering wheel as he maneuvered through the choking nightmare that was rush hour traffic. The SUV was a sweet ride - handled like a dream despite it's size, and he wished he could gun it and see just how fast it could go from zero to sixty, but they were stuck in a bumper-to-bumper jam and he spent more time with his foot on the brake than the gas. As they inched along painfully slow and all of the four hundred and twenty horses under the hood hobbled by the press of cars around them, he kept thinking about the blonde from the night before. He had caught a glimpse of her shoes tossed carelessly aside on the floor when the bedroom door had opened, before Mr. Jones emerged and pulled it firmly shut behind him. While it was no great shock that he had fucked her, Will was surprised that she had apparently stayed the night and wished the door had opened wide enough to give him a look at the bed.

He had managed to catch that her name was Emma, he had hovered outside the office the night before and overheard the start of their conversation. She had come for a favour, which made Will's eyebrows raise - people generally did things for the boss, not the other way around. His curiosity had been even more piqued and he was dying to know what she was going to ask, but then he'd had that strange muscle cramp. The sudden, shocking pain made him see stars and he couldn't suppress the groan that Mr. Jones must have heard, he'd yelled through the door for Will to leave and he'd slunked away with his tail between his legs.

"Scarlet, I've got a job for you today."

Will sat up a little straighter in the driver's seat and looked in the rearview mirror again. The boss was still staring down at his phone, thumbs flying over the screen. He was dressed in another one of his fine bespoke suits, perfectly pressed and with not a hair on his head out of place, nothing about him indicating that he'd just spent a night in the sack with a woman who Will could only dream about having.

_Lucky bastard._

"Yes, sir?" Will asked.

Mr. Jones spoke without lifting his head, still texting away, "There will be a girl at the audition today who I have a personal interest in. When I point her out to you, I want you to take her out the back way and drive her straight to the train station. There's a train at 12:30 that she needs to be on, you're going to buy her a ticket and make sure she catches it. You stick with her and put her on the train and you don't leave until the train has left the station with her on it, understood?"

"Yes sir." Will said again, even as disappointment flooded through him. He had to miss the auditions to run this errand? The girls who danced at the club pulled down six figures easily and he had heard what they did in order to secure such a lucrative job. It was supposed to be one of the perks of his new position.

"Do you have a problem with that?"

Mr. Jones's voice was soft, but Will glanced in the mirror again and saw that he was looking up and their eyes met in the mirror. Will felt sweat trickle down his back at the piercing stare and suppressed a nervous cough.

"No boss, of course not."

"Good."

The boss went back to his phone and Will looked straight ahead. He'd do what the man ordered, no questions asked. He'd take this girl (_whoever she was - a personal interest? What the hell did that mean?_) to the train station and make sure she got on the right train if it bloody killed him. The wannabe dancers would have to wait, the open auditions were held once a month and he'd have plenty of opportunities in the future to sample the goods as long as he didn't cock this up.

He mentally mapped out the route from the club to the station and recalled the church that he would have to pass along the way. A large stone edifice, all Gothic spires and grinning gargoyles that loomed over it's modern neighbours and seemed woefully out of place in this day and age. Will's churchgoing days were long behind him, the trilling of the bells, the dipped fingers into the font of holy water, the whispered prayers and the black clad priests droning on and on about sin and salvation while he squirmed on the pew and tried to look like he was paying attention, lest his gran cuff him on the ear afterwards for daydreaming.

The light in the intersection they were approaching turned from yellow to red and he hit the brakes just in time. _Christ Will, get your head straight!_ He forced his attention back to the road lest he crash the boss's car. If he totaled the Escalade then there wouldn't be a prayer in the world that would save him.

Why was he even thinking about all those boring hours spent on uncomfortable wood seats listening to dessicated old men anyway? He'd never once missed it, he missed his gran, the tough old bird who had raised him, but he had no great urge to kneel down before a priest and confess his many sins. He was probably going straight to hell anyway, "thou shalt not steal" was not a commandment he'd kept to very well, or at all.

Will thought of the blonde again, Emma, and her strange message for the boss. Latin, Mr. Jones had said, and he had answered her with his own odd reply. He had looked up the words when he had left the two of them behind closed doors and gone back to his own small flat on the other side of town. He thought he remembered them correctly, but what came up only baffled him even more.

"Salve de caelo"

_Greetings from heaven._

"Salve de inferno"

_Greetings from hell._

Who talked like that? It was bizarre, but he supposed it must be some sort of inside joke between the two of them. He still wanted to know who exactly Emma was - a call girl? A booty call? A mistress, a girlfriend, the boss's regular Sunday night fuck?

He was still musing on in when he pulled the SUV into the parking lot behind the club and killed the engine.

"Scarlet."

The boss's voice made his hand freeze on the door handle.

"Two things to remember. First, the lady who came by last night. That was a private visit, you understand? As in, not to be discussed with anyone. Second, don't eavesdrop on my personal conversations ever again."

Mr. Jones slid his phone into his jacket pocket and exited the car in one smooth motion. It took several moments for Will's heart rate to slow back down enough to so he could follow.

* * *

><p>Killian surveyed the hopefuls from behind the tinted glass at the front of the club. He could see out, but no one could see in.<p>

"Any catch your eye, sir?"

Peter sidled up silently next to him and nodded at the assembled group. Killian ignored him.

The girls were all dolled up with teetering heels, short skirts, bare midriffs and heavy makeup. Ready to audition for a spot on his stage, ready to do whatever it took to land the gig. It was Monday, the only day of the week the club was closed, the day for deep cleaning after another weekend of round-the-clock Bacchanalian partying, the day the supplies were restocked for another week and today was also the one Monday a month when any girl who was willing to try her luck could show up and try to snag a spot on his constantly rotating roster of dancers.

None of them seemed particularly promising. The Jolly Roger was not a run of the mill strip club, it was an upscale establishment that catered to wealthy men, or those who were willing to spend the necessary cash to pretend that they could afford a night in his domain. There was no drink on the menu that cost less than a twenty and for everything that was offered off the menu, the sky was the limit. The girls' talents extended to far more than dancing, of course, and if none of them caught a patron's interest, the male waiters were also available for a turn in the private rooms - at a price. Nothing in his club was free.

He found the girl from the photograph, standing in line next to a man who had his hand wrapped firmly around her elbow. It was no wonder, she looked ready to bolt at any second. Her skintight dress, cherry red lipstick and raccoon eyeliner did nothing to hide the fact that she was clearly underage, not that it mattered. The police knew better than to raid his place and there were plenty of customers who would eagerly pay a premium for such obvious youth.

The real cost of the delights he offered - well, no one ever realized what that was until it was too late.

"That one," he said, pointing to her, "Peter, go bring her in first."

While Peter went outside to fetch her he pulled out his wallet and thumbed out a wad of bills, handing them to Will Scarlet.

"For the ticket, and get her something to eat. Buy her a magazine, gum, whatever. And you don't leave-"

"Until she's on the train and it's left the station. I got this, boss."

The girl was brought before him, walking awkwardly in her high heels and looking at him with sheer terror on her face. He regarded her with his hands in his trouser pockets and a hard expression. Up close she looked even younger, the big brown eyes filled with unshed tears and her thin frame trying to fold in on itself as she visibly shrank under his inspection.

"What's your name?" he asked, more a demand than a question.

"Destiny." she answered in barely more than a whisper. He refrained from rolling his eyes at the obvious lie.

"No," he said, taking a step closer and looking down at her as he turned up the heat in his gaze just a tad, "Your _real_ name, sweetheart."

The girl was trembling, trying in vain to tug down her short dress over her thighs and stinking of fear, her eyes locked on the floor. Killian put his fingers under her chin and lifted it, forcing her to meet his eyes.

"Katie." she admitted.

It would take very little to corrupt her, she was too young and too scared to resist him, poised to fall with only the lightest push. Leading people into vice and immorality, exploiting every weakness and exposing their many frailties was his sole purpose in the world, the sum of his existance. The darkness inside him beckoned, but he had already agreed to relinquish her back to the light.

He leaned down with his hand still under her chin and breathed into her ear, "Katie. Your prayers have been answered."

Taking a step back he nodded at Will, who took the girl by the arm and steered her to the door that would lead through the empty club and out the rear exit to where the car was parked. She shot a confused glance over her shoulder that he met with a blank look. Peter watched her go and turned to him with one eyebrow cocked.

"Boss?"

"Start the auditions. Let me know if you find any suitable prospects, I'll be in my office."

"You're not going to watch?" Peter asked, clearly confused.

An hour or so ago he had been in his shower with Emma, pressing her up against the slippery tiles and driving into her one last time while the water streamed over them and steam filled the bathroom. He thought of their wet, soapy bodies sliding together under the spray and his hand going under her knee, pulling her leg up over his thigh so he could plunge inside. Her nails had dug into his shoulders and his hips had rolled against her over and over again until he shook with his release and she was limp and boneless in his arms. He could still taste her in his mouth, could still feel her on his cock and under his fingers and hear her needy, breathless whimpers in his ear. It might be awhile before he got the chance to fuck his beautiful, wanton angel again and he was going to savour the feeling as long as it lasted.

Peter, the club's general manager, could handle the auditions on his own. He was a slight man with a baby face and rather prominent ears, looking for all the world like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. He seemed the last person suited to oversee what went on behind the club's closed doors, but he was actually a rather devious and sadistic prick, the innocent countenance was only a skin-deep facade.

He left the waiting hopefuls to his manager's less-than-tender mercies and went up to the second floor and his office, a near twin to the one in his condo. Like the condo, the liquor cabinet was fully stocked and he poured himself the scotch he didn't get to drink the night before. As he had with Emma, he sat down on the sofa and raised his glass.

"Favour granted, blessed one." he said to the empty room, and sipped his drink.

As the scotch ran smoothly down his throat with nary a burn and settled in his stomach, he pulled his phone from inside his jacket and turned it over in his hand. He had the urge to call her, but he made no move to dial her number.

She would be long gone from his bedroom by now and back to her own work. A saviour of the innocent, helping girls like young Katie find their way back home. In all the long years he had known her Emma had never wavered from her divine purpose. She might get a bit distracted at times and spend a few hours enjoying more earthy pleasures, but he had been unable to get her to succumb to him completely. His continued failure drove him mad with frustration, but he would never stop trying. He did have all the time in the world to fully seduce her away from paradise, after all.

His phone beeped and he looked down, swiping his thumb over the screen to read the text.

_Thank you - E_

He smiled and slipped the phone back into his pocket, taking another swallow from his glass. A pile of papers were set on his desk, the weekend numbers had to be reviewed, purchase orders needed to be signed, the employee shifts had to be scheduled - all the neverending work involved in actually running the club awaited. He couldn't ignore it, but he could set it aside for a moment. The gift from his lovely blessed one, his _beata_, his angel, was downstairs and he was ready to go play with it. The asshole boyfriend, unaware that his young conquest was gone and he was about to come face to face with his own damnation.

Back down in the lounge the music was blasting, the heavy bass making the floor vibrate under his feet and on the main stage two girls were putting on their best show while Peter watched without a flicker of interest, the picture of bored indifference. He spotted Killian and stood up while the girls froze mid-writhe, staring at him with wide glassy eyes.

"Going to take over, boss?" Peter asked, using the remote he held to turn the music down.

Killian glanced over at the girls. One was completely naked, the other was clad only in red lace panties and both had rather obvious breast implants on display, their skin stretched tight and shiny over the silicone. The nude one squeezed the other girl's nipple and started to slide her other hand into the red lace while her tongue came out and licked her gloss-covered lips.

He looked back and saw Peter smirking. His manager would know that neither of them was up to Killian's standards, but the little shit would undoubtedly let them continue on and see just how far they were willing to go.

Loud, fake moans came from the stage, trying to draw his attention back and this time he didn't hold back on the eye roll.

"Auditions are over." Killian declared without sparing them another glance. He strode through the room, past the small round tables clustered around the stage and the long gleaming bar, and went through the heavy door to the lobby.

The girls who were still waiting all looked up hopefully at his appearance, but he zeroed in on the man who had accompanied Emma's favour and pointed to him.

"You. Come with me. Everyone else, feel free to try again next month, but we're done now for the day."

He ignored the disappointed faces and the pleas from the girls, uninterested in their whispered promises of what they would do if he'd just reconsider. The man followed him back into the lounge, now empty and silent, the music was switched off and Peter and the two girls had disappeared.

"Do you know who I am?" Killian asked, turning and fixing the man in place with a look. He was at least twice the girl's age, if not more. He was of average height with an average build and wasn't bad looking, certainly there would be plenty of girls who would find the man attractive enough. Most likely possessed of some charm and powers of persuasion, since he had been able to lure young Katie away from home like a semi-pedeophilic Pied Piper.

Oh, there was plenty of darkness in his soul, Killian could feel it, smell it, _taste_ it. He _reeked_ of his sins.

"Yeah," the man said, trying to sound casual and failing miserably, "You're Killian Jones, right? The owner?"

He was going to _relish_ this, "I am Mr. Jones, yes."

"Where's Destiny? Did she get the job? I know she's a bit skinny and her tits aren't that big, but trust me, she can do amazing things with her mouth."

"Destiny," Killian repeated, "Who came up with that ridiculously cliched name? Her, or you? If it was her, well, she's fifteen. If it was you, what's your excuse?"

He went behind the bar and retrieved a wide-mouthed martini glass from the overhead rack, a clean white dish towel, and a small sharp knife, normally used for slicing lemons or limes to garnish the drinks.

The man was standing where he had left him, shifting side to side and looking around nervously, "Hey man, where's my girlfriend? Fuck, she didn't chicken out, did she? Is she puking in the bathroom or something? Look, I'll just grab her and get out of your hair-"

"Quiet!" Killian snapped, and he fell silent immediately, swallowing hard.

He set the knife down on a table and held up the glass, polishing out a spot with the towel, "Katie has gone home. A rather generous move on my part, as she would have brought in a great deal of profit, but alas, she had a guardian angel looking out for her, that one. Do you believe in angels, Mr - what the hell is your name, anyway?"

"Ben," the man said, eyes fixed on the stainless steel blade, "Ben Kriesel."

Killian flicked his finger against the glass and set it next to the knife, "Well, Mr. Kriesel, answer the question."

"What?"

He tossed the towel over his shoulder and repeated it, "Do you believe in angels?"

Kriesel blinked at him, "What, like with the halos and the wings? Are you fucking serious? No."

Killian inclined his head and smiled, "And what about demons?"

Without waiting for a response, he struck. Quick as lightning, he grabbed Kriesel's left hand and made a cut across his palm with the knife. Bright red blood welled up immediately and he held the hand over the martini glass, letting the blood flow into it. When enough had collected in the tumbler, he pulled the towel from his shoulder and pressed it against the wound.

"What the hell?" Kriesel screamed, yanking his injured hand back and cradling it against his chest.

"Funny you should say that." Killian smirked at the man's ironic choice of words.

He started to take a step back and Killian glared at him.

"Don't move."

He slipped a hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and produced a folded up sheet of paper and a silver fountain pen. The pen was dipped into the blood in the glass and the liquid was siphoned up into the empty ink reservoir inside. He unfolded the paper, revealing the dense black printing that took up almost the entire sheet, and laid the pen on the blank line at the bottom.

"Sign your name." Killian ordered.

Kriesel's eyes darted side to side, seeking out an escape route or looking for someone to help. Killian watched, wondering if the man would try to run. Not that it would do any good. The doors were locked and the room was soundproof. If he expected aid to magically appear from the shadowed stage or the deep leather banquettes that ringed the room, he was sorely mistaken. He was in Killian's domain, entirely at his mercy, the club was exclusive in more ways than one.

The man muttered a prayer under his breath, barely coherent but Killian heard him clearly.

"I thought you didn't believe? Anyway, after what you've done, do you really think anyone up there is listening to you? They made an exchange, Mr. Kriesel, you for the girl and their backs are turned to you and they're deaf to your prayers. Now sign."

Ben Kriesel moved as if in a trance, the towel wrapped around his bleeding left hand and reaching for the pen with his right. He scratched out his signature on the paper, the letters formed in his own blood. Killian grinned with satisfaction and as the pen fell limply to the table he held his hand over the paper and a bright yellow flame ignited over the words, drying the blood instantly and searing it into the paper.

The trance broken, he leapt back, almost falling to the floor. Killian folded the paper up and slipped it and the pen back into his interior pocket. He ran his fingers down the lapels of his suit jacket and fussed with his rings.

"What are you?" the man asked, his voice cracking on the words.

Sometimes he missed the old days, when the beliefs were fed to the populace along with their mother's milk and he was recognized and feared for what he was and the power he wielded. The many words for his kind, _demon, devil, fiend, incubus,_ the ones that were now long forgotten, _asmodeus, hecataea, planoi._

_Damnate._ Infernal one, although that particular moniker had become something of an endearment now.

He distilled it down to it's simplest terms, "I am the one who now owns your soul. Signed and sealed. I own you, and you are now in my service. Any order, any command I give, you will obey. I make the demands now and you follow them."

Kriesel opened his mouth and Killian made a slashing gesture with his hand, silencing him immediately.

"You do not speak unless spoken to. For now you will return home. You will make no attempt to contact the girl again, or any other girl, online or in person. You don't get to fuck anyone, you don't even get to jerk off anymore. Come back tomorrow before the club opens, something will be found for you to do. Understood?"

The man nodded once and Killian bared his teeth, running his tongue over them and giving a dark chuckle. He took a step forward and patted his new acquisition on the cheek, ignoring the hiss of pain when his palm burned the asshole's skin. When he pulled away there was a livid red mark left behind.

As much as he enjoyed the slow descent of a soul, the gradual slide of giving into temptation and sin until it was beyond redemption and eternally damned, it was satisfying at times to simply snatch one that was already rotten and give it a good squeeze.

He dismissed Ben Kriesel and tossed the blood stained glass and knife into the trash. The club was silent around him, empty and still. But tomorrow they would come again, the men with money to burn and he would be there to light the fire. The dancers would take the stage, their firm young flesh on display, willing and eager. Each night they all went a little farther, dug a little deeper, and lost a little bit more of themselves.

It was what he did, and he did it very well. All it took were three things, money, power, and sex. As he'd said to Emma, it was what they all wanted in some combination and he was happy to provide it. Some things never changed, he'd spent eternity watching what people would do for a little gold, some measure of importance and physical pleasure.

He slid his hands into his pockets. The modern world was a marvel, and the old beliefs were increasingly cast aside as superstitious nonsense. They may have mostly forgotten what he was, but that suited him fine.

It only made it easier to lure them in.


	4. Chapter 4

She juggled the cardboard tray of styrofoam cups in one hand and pulled the door open with the other. "_Shared Blessings_" was stencilled on the glass in neat letters, the name of the small charity that operated out of an old and slightly rundown building in the heart of the city. The sun was bright but there was a cool nip in the air and Emma was dressed casually. Jeans and boots with a slim cream-coloured sweater under a tan leather jacket, hair pulled back in a braided bun at the nape of her neck.

"Where have you been this morning?"

Mary Margaret Nolan tucked her dark bangs behind her ears and looked up as Emma set the tray down on her desk and handed her a peace offering in the form of a large green tea latte.

"Sorry," Emma apologized, "Overslept a bit, I had a late night."

David, Mary Margaret's husband and a co-director at Shared Blessings, stuck his head into the room with a wink, "Was it a hot date, Emma?"

She passed him a coffee with cream and two sugars from the tray and gave a flat, firm, "No."

"You sure about that?" Mary Margaret asked, sipping her tea and smiling at David like a cat that got the canary.

Her own cup in hand she went down the hall to her office with both of them following and could practically see the knowing looks they were trading behind her back. When she opened the door the first thing she saw was the large bouquet of flowers sitting in a vase on her small desk.

"That was delivered for you this morning." David explained, leaning against the jam and bringing his drink to his lips.

Emma set down her coffee next to the vase and shrugged off her jacket, "No date, just catching up with an old friend I hadn't seen in a while."

The office phone rang and Mary Margaret went to answer it while David grinned, clearly not buying her story. He strolled back to his own office with a comment about late nights with old friends that was heavy with insinuation. She ignored him and surveyed the floral arrangement. White gardenias, a great bunch of them tied neatly with a black velvet ribbon.

A small envelope was nestled in with the blooms, the card inside inscribed with only a few words and signed with a single initial.

_Beata, I miss you already._

_K_

She thumbed over the gilt edging with her eyes closed. _I miss you too, damnate._

Pulling out out her phone she typed him a quick text, _Thank you - E_, and tucked the card away where no one could find it.

With the flowers perched on her desk and filling the office with their rich scent, she sat down and booted up her computer. The new emails loaded and she scanned down the subject lines, deciding what to address first. There was a dozen different things that clamoured for her attention, the homeless outreach project, the soup kitchen and food pantry, the assistance they offered to runaways and street youth, job training and work placements in local businesses. Anything and everything they could do to help the people who needed it.

It was hard work, but it was her eternal mission to answer the prayers of lost souls seeking their way to a better path. She helped them find it, guiding them away from the darkness and into the light. The methods had changed as the world did, but the underlying purpose was still the same.

_Salvation._

_Redemption._

After forwarding a few messages on to David and answering several others, Emma glanced at the time and saw that it was a little after one. By now Katie would be on the train and on her way back home. Her parents were supposed to call and confirm once they'd picked her up, but she had no doubts that the girl would make it. Killian would see to it. She had faith in his promise, and she trusted him.

She could still feel him, waking up underneath him on his ridiculously comfortable bed with his clever mouth teasing at her breasts, his hot breath, (_he was always_ _hot_), against the sensitive peaks. She recalled the way he traced the curve underneath with his tongue, his hands spread flat on her ribcage and his heavy erection pressed against her thigh. It had been sinfully good, as it always was.

But it could only be that, the few stolen hours snatched here and there, the favours traded back and forth. They could not attract too much attention from any of the others, from her side or his.

Last night would have to sustain them for a while, they couldn't see each other again anytime soon. The memory of being under him, running her fingers through his soft hair and pulling his head down to capture his lips with hers as she took him into her body again and held him there as they lay cocooned in silk and each other with the rest of the world held briefly at bay, it had to be enough.

Her demon's dark, silky voice whispered in her ear, _"It's not enough, Emma."_

When Mary Margaret appeared in the door and called her to a meeting she welcomed the distraction from the direction her thoughts kept pulling to.

It was the first Monday of the month and they always met around this time to review the previous month and plan out the upcoming weeks. David had his laptop open on the conference table and Mary Margaret held a sheaf of papers. The young couple shared a loving look that made Emma smile, and then David's eyes went back to the screen and Mary Margaret passed out the photocopied notes as they got down to the business at hand.

Two new restaurants had signed up to donate their day old leftovers to the soup kitchen. Mary Margaret had a meeting with a law firm the following week that might turn into some pro bono work for the charity's clients who had legal issues they needed to resolve. The good news first, and then the bad.

"We ran another deficit last month," David said, turning the laptop around and pointing to a spreadsheet filled with numbers, donations against expenses, "Second month in a row."

"How much?" Emma asked. They operated on a shoestring budget and didn't have much in reserve to cover any shortfalls in their expenses.

"Almost twelve percent. Month before it was eighteen, so things perked up a bit, but if this continues we'll have to make cuts."

"I hate the idea of cutting anything." Mary Margaret added, cupping her hands around the remains of her green tea latte with a worried look on her face.

Emma reached over and squeezed her wrist in reassurance, "The mayor's gala is coming up soon and we always get a big boost in donations from that. In the meantime, I'm sure I can get the shortfall covered for now so we don't have to make any cuts."

"You're going to talk to the anonymous benefactor?" David asked.

She nodded.

Mary Margaret looked at her husband and then at Emma, "I wish you could tell us who he or she is. I really want to thank them for all the support they've given."

"You know the rules, Mary Margaret. Our mystery donor has only one condition - they must remain anonymous and we will respect that. Even you guys have to stay in the dark, just to be safe. We don't want to risk losing their contribution."

"I know," Mary Margaret sighed heavily, "But, you'll tell them how much we appreciate their generosity?"

"And that I've got all the tax receipts ready if they ever want to stop being anonymous." David piped in.

"Yes," she said, standing up, "I will, but I can tell you one hundred percent that our benefactor does not care about tax receipts. We're done for the day, right?"

Mary Margaret gathered up her notes, "Yes. Oh! Emma, Katie's parents called me just before the meeting. She made it home safe."

David closed his computer and spoke in voice that was laced with anger, "That guy should be arrested. I know she doesn't want to press charges, but he shouldn't get off scot free after what he did to her. He knew she was fifteen, the son of a bitch."

Emma paused in the doorway and met his furious gaze, "David, I'm sure he'll get what he deserves at some point."

She knew he would. Killian would see to that.

...

A block over from their office building the large looming bulk of the Cathedral of Saint Raphael stood silent guard as it had done for over a hundred and fifty years. Not a long period of time in the grand scheme of things, but in a city that regularly tore things down to make way for what was considered more modern and updated and therefore better, it was practically ancient.

Her boots crunched on the brown leaves that had blown across the wide stone staircase as she made her way up and went through the heavy oak door. She slipped noiselessly into the back pew so as not to disturb the service already underway. The early evening Mass was sparsely populated with only a few devout souls in attendance. From the pulpit Father Hopper was reading from the Gospels, shoving his glasses back up his nose every time they slid down too far, which was a frequent occurrence.

The church worked closely with the charity on many projects and she knew Father Hopper well. He worked two shifts a week at the soup kitchen and helped counsel many of their clients. While he had a somewhat nervous demeanor, the middle-aged priest was a good man and cared deeply about both the spiritual and earthly welfare of his flock.

She leaned back against the solid wood of the pew and listened to him speak, reciting the familiar passages and verse that spoke of solace, faith, and love.

"Peace be with you," she intoned at the end along with the rest of the worshippers.

As the service concluded most of them left, heading back to their homes and waiting families. But a few lingered with bent heads and clasped hands, seeking something inside the thick and sturdy stone walls.

She watched and listened.

After a moment she stood up and crossed the echoing nave, sitting back down next to one of the stragglers. A young man in his early twenties, dressed in grubby looking jeans and battered boots with a backpack on the floor at his feet and the yellow remains of a bruise on his cheek.

Her voice was soft and carried only to his ears, "Do you have a safe place to sleep tonight?"

Their eyes met and the answer she already knew was written on his face. She pulled out a business card from inside her jacket and handed it to him. His hands were cold as his fingers brushed hers and the nails were bitten down to the quick. Hair fell over his forehead as he looked down at the address he was cradling in his palm.

"Go there and tell them Emma Swan sent you. They'll feed you and give you a bed."

The young man looked at her and back down at the card, "Thank you," he said, sounding both relieved and confused, "But how did you know?"

She didn't answer directly but she gave his shoulder a squeeze when she stood up, "Call it an educated guess, of sorts."

Father Hopper was being monopolized by an elderly couple at the door, shoving his glasses back up his nose as his listened to their litany of minor complaints and perceived slights. Emma touched his elbow when she stepped over the threshold and gave a sympathetic smile to the beleaguered looking priest before heading back down the steps and making for home. He had to deal with the parishioners who had too much time on their hands but her work was done for the night.

The tree-lined street was filled with large, rambling Victorian houses that had once been single family dwellings but were now mostly converted into multiple apartments. She lived in a second floor walk-up that was small but filled with original features, wide baseboards and high ceilings with elaborate plaster mouldings. Over the years she'd stayed in everything from the grandest palaces to the most spartan lodgings, but she had a special fondness for this place.

Her phone rang just as she finished her late dinner of takeout Chinese. She stuck the chopsticks into the carton and swiped over the screen to answer, not bothering to check the display to see who was calling. She knew who was on the other end.

"Killian."

"Evening, love. Did you get the flowers?"

She stood up from the sofa and went to the large bay window in her living room, drawing the curtains shut for the night with the phone held between her head and shoulder, "Yes. And I also got a message from some very relieved parents that their daughter made it home safe. Again, thank you."

"You're welcome, but I didn't do it for them, you know."

The window seat was covered with cushions and she sank down, drawing her legs up under her. The words came out in a rush, "I have another favour to ask."

Amusement filled his voice, "_Another_ deal with the devil, blessed one? You're making quite the habit of it. What do you need?"

She explained about the budget shortfall and he answered her immediately, "I'll have the money transferred first thing in the morning."

"Thank you."

They were silent for a moment. She could hear him moving around and she wondered if he was at home or at his club.

"My sheets smell like you," he whispered and her eyes closed. He was at home. The whisper of the rustling silk was audible even over the phone, "Come over tonight."

"I can't"

"Yes you can."

"Killian...you know I can't."

A long resigned sigh came down the line, "What if I ask for quid pro quo?"

She smiled into the darkness, "You won't."

"Oh, the things I do for you and I get so little in return."

He couldn't see her, but she raised a brow at that, "I wasn't aware that last night was so unsatisfying for you."

Killian's voice dropped low and dripped with lust, "Well darling, I was dreadfully unsatisfied with the amount of time I got to spend with my head between your creamy thighs and my tongue buried inside you. You taste so delicious, I need an entire night simply to savour you properly."

She'd damn him, but he was already. Heat pooled low in her stomach as his voice continued to whisper and caress in her ear, "I want to bind you to my headboard, put your legs over my shoulders and fuck you while you scream my name and beg me for mercy. And then I want to lay on my back under you and watch you ride me again like you did last night, taking every drop of pleasure you can wring from my cock."

"Killian, stop," she protested, pinching the bridge of her nose and trying not to rub her thighs together, "This only makes it harder."

"Oh, it's definitely_ hard_ right now. And my hand is a poor bloody substitute for you, Emma."

Temptation beckoned and her fingers were curled so tight around her phone that her knuckles were probably stark white. She let out an exasperated puff of air,

"I should have let them burn you at the stake when I had the chance."

That got a laugh out of him, "What, in, where was that again...Barcelona? No, Valencia. Ah yes, I remember. The most beautiful angel in the heavens came to me that day and practically wrested me right from the fire."

"Never say I don't do anything for you, infernal one."

"I seem to recall you insisting that particular rescue was not actually for my benefit."

She shifted back, stretching her legs out in front of her and picking at a thread on her sweater, "Yeah, well. Maybe it was."

He chuckled, "And the truth comes out at last. Just as you should come over here and join me in this very large bed."

Her resolve had strengthened, "No. Now stop asking or I'll hang up on you."

"Fine. I'll stop asking, at least for tonight."

Silence fell. She could picture him lying in the bed they had shared, dark hair against the pillow and blue eyes staring up at the ceiling. He didn't speak, but she could hear him.

"Soon," she murmured, "I promise, Killian."

He lost that seductive purr and dark promise and there was only simple truth in his words, "Emma...just, I miss you. I always miss you. Don't make me wait too long."

"Goodnight, _damnate_."

"Goodnight, my _beata_."

* * *

><p><strong>Spain - 1570<strong>

_He had got himself into quite the predicament this time._

It had all started out with such promise, roaming a country that prided itself on it's devotion to the one true church and as such kept making war on England's Protestant queen and the sullen, stolid Dutch, hemmed in on their southern borders by an empire they viewed as barbarous infidels, rife with suspicion and mistrust and easily whipped into a frenzy under his guiding hand.

It had been glorious, until somehow it had turned back on him and he found himself on the wrong end of the Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition, taken into custody and charged with a litany of crimes. Chief among them blasphemy, but also sodomy, usury,

Bestiality.

While he was certainly guilty of most of what they claimed, he was rather affronted by that one.

He groaned and felt like a poker had been shoved down his throat. Someone had suspected that he was more that just an ordinary heretic, and he'd been clapped in irons that had been blessed and consecrated and they'd taken precautions to ensure that he couldn't escape. He could do nothing except lay where they had left him, the verdict had been decided and he was to meet his fate in the morning.

"This is quite the predicament, _damnate_."

He managed to open one eye and turned his head at the sound of the voice. All he could see at first was blinding white light, but then it coalesced into a slim figure standing outside his cell. He blinked as a memory pulled at the back of his mind and recognition dawned.

"So we meet again, _beata_. I do wish the circumstances were more to my advantage and you'll have to forgive me for not rising in your gracious presence."

"I am not here to offer you forgiveness."

The cell door opened and she came over to where he lay sprawled in the dirty rushes against the wall, the hem of her gown dragging across the cold stone floor. The light washed over his face as she neared and he shut his eyes again.

"Oh, what have they done to you?"

He sensed she was very close, crouched down next to him and he wondered absently why her light wasn't burning him. Or maybe it was and he was simply too far gone to notice. The torture had been extensive...and rather creative. He did admire how inventive the inquisitors could be.

"If you've come to hear my final confession, fair warning, it shall take some time."

Something that sounded suspiciously like a snort came from above him and he chanced opening his eyes again. The angel was gazing down at him, so near that a loose strand of her golden hair was resting against his cheek.

"They're going to execute you in the morning," she said, with no expression save a slight lift of her brow.

"They're going to try," he retorted. Torture was one thing, but they did not possess the means to actually destroy him, a fact that she was certainly aware of, "Will you come watch? I'm sure it will be most entertaining when they attempt to burn me."

His mouth was filled with ash and he turned his head and spat into the filthy straw.

"I'm not here for that, either."

Her voice was as serene and unaffected as he remembered, and she was just as lovely. Green eyes the colour of sea glass swept over him, taking in his weakened condition, and settled back on his face.

"They do not yet know for certain what you are. If they obtain actual proof when you don't succumb on the pyre, it will only encourage this madness to continue. More poor wretches will continue to suffer and perish in the flames."

He closed his eyes as he resigned himself to the reason for her appearance, "So you have come to dispatch me properly then, blessed one? Well, just do me the courtesy of making it quick."

He tilted his head back and bared his neck, steeling himself for the slice of the flaming sword. But instead he felt her hands on his chest through the sackcloth he'd been forced to don, and the soft exhale of her breath on his face when she spoke with a hint of amusement, "Have a little faith, infernal one."

There was a clatter as his irons sprang open and fell away from his wrists and ankles.

"Was that a jest?" he asked, rubbing at the livid red marks the shackles had left behind and hissing slightly at the pain as the feeling slowly returned to his numbed limbs. She didn't answer, but he looked at her again and saw her lower lip was caught between her teeth as if she was trying to hide a smile. But then her face grew serious again.

"Can you walk?" Emma asked.

He sounded as incredulous as he felt, "You've come to _release_ me from the custody of the Holy Tribunal?"

She waved her hand over him, "There is nothing _holy_ about this. And you came to my assistance once, I am merely discharging my debt to you."

She helped him to his feet. Her gloved hands held him steady and he had a fleeting wish to feel the white skin that lay underneath the embroidered satin. It was a foolish impulse, her bare touch would be more painful than that of the implements that had been used in the attempts to draw a confession from him.

Still, he collapsed in the bed of the wagon she had procured and imagined what it would feel like to brush his fingers over hers. He lay on a bed of straw, thankfully clean this time, and welcomed the diversion as his body recovered from it's ordeal, bones knitting back in place and skin healing over the many abrasions.

When the wagon stopped several hours later at the outskirts of the next town, he was nearly restored and he climbed down from the bed without assistance and watched her pass a coin to the silent peasant who held the reins.

He urged the large draft horse on and the wagon rumbled away over the hard-packed dirt road. The angel looked at him briefly, and then she drew up the hood of her cloak and turned.

"Why did you really come for me, Emma?" he called out, and she paused.

Her answer was barely above a whisper, "Because I heard you, Killian."

Their eyes met and held for the space of a heartbeat, but as soon as he blinked, she vanished.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author: Thank you everyone who has read and reviewed this so far, the comments you guys leave are amazing and I love them all! My apologies for the time in between updates, hopefully you all will stick with me though!**

* * *

><p><em>"Why am I even here?"<em>

Will stood on the sidewalk and looked at the large sign posted outside the church, chewing on his lip. The times for the daily Masses were listed, along with the church's phone number, website and email address. He glanced at his phone to check the time, according to the schedule in front of him a service would have started less than fifteen minutes ago.

All Are Welcome

It was proclaimed on the sign, and he shook his head and wondered how true that was. Would he really be welcomed here, after all his sins?

"Why the hell am I doing?" he muttered even as he climbed the stone steps and pushed open the large door as quietly as he could. His years as a thief had served him well, he didn't make a single sound as he crossed the small vestibule and into the church proper, and not one head turned to look at him when he sat down in the back pew.

The choir was singing the last verse of a hymn, the final notes faded away and a middle-age priest clapped and smiled at the group. He stood at the pulpit and gripped the edge of the lectern with one hand and shoved his glasses up his nose with the other as he began to speak.

Will's leg bounced up and down in a jerky staccato as he looked around at the stained glass and statues, listening to the priest talk without actually hearing the words. It was his day off, and he could be playing Xbox, or watching porn, or smoking a joint, or doing any one of a hundred things that would be a hell of a lot more fun than sitting in a drafty old church attending Mass. But for some reason he had been unable to stop thinking about it, ever since the day he had driven that girl Katie from the club to the train station on the boss's orders.

She had been insanely young, so much that it made him uncomfortable to look at her in the too-short, too-tight dress she'd been wearing, and he'd used some of the boss's money to buy her an oversized sweatshirt from the gift shop in the station's main hall. He'd waited outside the ladies room while she'd scrubbed off her makeup, and when she came back out with her hair tied back in a ponytail and the sweatshirt hanging down to her knees and covering her hands, she'd looked like a damn kid.

They didn't really talk, she'd answered in a whisper when he asked her the name of the town he had to buy a ticket for, and had merely nodded when he pointed to the small restaurant and offered an early lunch. Will had stuck to coffee, downing three cups in succession while she picked at a burger and fries. From what he had seen at the club, it hadn't looked like she knew Mr. Jones, and he couldn't fathom the man's interest in her.

He squinted at the name of the town at the ticket and asked, "Why are you going there?"

She looked up from her plate, clearly startled by the question, "I'm going home."

When the schedule board flashed the track number and that her train was ready for boarding, he guided her to the correct platform and gestured to the open doors, "Well, there you go."

Katie pushed the sleeves of the sweatshirt up to her elbows and stared at the ground, "Will you tell her I said thank you?"

"Yeah, I'll tell...wait, her? Her who?"

The girl's big brown eyes blinked at him, "Emma. You're a friend of hers, aren't you?"

_Emma?_ Mr. Jones's private late-night visitor? She had said she needed a favour, but he hadn't heard what it was exactly. Mr. Jones had spoken of a personal interest in the girl, and was paying for her to go home. Was this the favour Emma had asked?

Suddenly Katie flung her arms around him, hugging him with much more force than he would have thought her slight frame capable of.

"I didn't think she'd really be able to get me out, but she promised she'd help me. Tell her I'll never forget this, and please tell her I said thank you?"

Will patted the girl awkwardly on the back, "Uh, sure. Of course."

He'd waited with his hands in his pockets, standing on the platform until the train started moving, Katie giving a small wave from her window seat that he found himself returning. The text he sent to Mr. Jones confirming that the job was done wasn't returned, and the boss had barely acknowledged him when he'd gone back to the Jolly Roger, he'd been in his office and up to his elbows in paperwork. The auditions had been over, but Will found he had lost some of his earlier enthusiasm for the chance to conduct personal tryouts.

Mr. Jones had seemed strangely subdued for a few days after, spending long hours by himself behind closed doors and being curt and dismissive to anyone who approached him. But he'd come out of his funk and had gone back to holding court in his private booth with Will standing silent guard next to him, either allowing the sycophants to sit down at the boss's nod or sending them away when he shook his head.

The church's choir was singing again, a hymn about angels watching over the world. He had to admit it was kind of pleasant to listen to. The voices rose and soared, filling the nave and making him feel a sense of contentment and something else that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Maybe it was nostalgia, the hymns had always been the part of Mass he disliked the least when he was a kid.

Will recited the Our Father along with the rest, surprised that he still remembered all the words to the prayer after so many years. But it came flooding back in an instant, _"Our father, who art in heaven...your will be done...and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil...amen."_

He didn't go up for communion, he couldn't, not unless he'd made his confession first and been absolved and there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell of that happening. Most of the congregation went up and accepted the wafer and wine from the priest's hands, but a few stayed in the pews and no one looked askance at him for not partaking.

When the service was over he didn't slip out immediately the way he thought he would. He watched most of the parishioners leave and when the church was nearly empty he stood up and wandered around, looking at the little side chapels, reading the inlaid brass plaques that proclaimed the names of the families who had donated the money to build them and were buried in the tombs within. He didn't really recognize any of them, but then he'd never been too interested in history.

He found something he remembered, a long narrow table with rows of candles, little votives in glass holders that were to be lit as a prayer for a soul that had passed on. His gran had always lit one, every Sunday without fail, praying that the people she loved had found their way from purgatory and into heaven.

There was a lockbox with a card listing a suggested donation of two dollars. He pulled out his wallet and stuffed in a fifty, it wasn't like he couldn't afford it now, and besides, it was for his gran...and his sister.

Penelope. Gone too young, much too young. No angel had been watching over her that day.

He mumbled a prayer under his breath and lit two of the candles, watching the wicks catch and flare to life and smelling the honeyed scent of the beeswax before zipping up his jacket and turning to leave. He didn't even make it one step, he almost collided into someone who had been standing behind him.

"Can't say I expected to see you here."

Will froze, his mind going blank for a split second. He gaped at the woman who had seemed to appear out of thin air, her arms crossed over her chest and looking him up and down with a slight frown. It was the blonde, Emma. She looked different from the first time he had seen her, the sexy white dress and bedroom hair were replaced with a simple button-down shirt over jeans and a long braid hanging on her shoulder.

"Yeah? Why's that?" he shot back when he got over his shock.

She rolled her eyes and sounded vaguely amused, "You work for Killian Jones. Aren't you afraid you're going to burst into flames?"

The thought had crossed his mind but he jammed his thumbs into his belt loops and rocked back on his heels, "I could say the same thing about you. After all, you and Mr. Jones are-"

The word died in his throat. She tilted her head slightly when he didn't continue, "Are...?" she repeated, looking curious.

He was going to say "fucking", but he couldn't bring himself to swear like that in a church. Gran would spin right out of her grave, plus he was sure there was more going on between the two of them than just sex. He knew what it looked like when the boss was casually screwing a girl, the previous night he'd taken two of the dancers into one of the back rooms with him and Will was under no illusions about what had gone on in there. But the soft smile and inside jokes he'd shared with her had been absent, and no other woman had spent the whole night in his bedroom.

"Emma!"

The priest who had conducted the service poked his head into the alcove where they were standing and shoved his glasses back up his nose again when he noticed Will, "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt. I'm Father Hopper."

He extended his hand and Will shook it, "Will Scarlet," he mumbled, feeling a flush creeping over his neck.

"Is this your first visit to Saint Raphael's?"

Will nodded, "Yeah. It's a lovely church."

It sounded lame and insincere to his ears, but Father Hopper nodded in agreement, "It certainly is, I like to think the grandeur of the setting makes up for my rather mundane and ordinary sermons. We have some pamphlets at the front you can take with you if you like, about our history and our current programs and schedule. I'd bend your ear some more with all the information myself, but I have a call scheduled with the bishop this afternoon that I have to prepare for. Emma, I just wanted to ask, can you swing by my office for a quick meeting before you leave?"

"Of course, Father. I'll be there in a minute, once I finish talking to Will."

The priest's face lit up with a beaming smile, "Oh! You're a friend of Emma's? Any friend of Emma Swan's is most welcome here. She's a great asset to the church and the community."

He didn't know how to respond to that, but Emma answered for him, "We have a mutual friend, so to speak."

"Well, good to meet you, Will. Hope to see you at Mass again," Father Hopper said, lifting his hand in a wave and heading back up the aisle.

What kind of woman was a "great asset to the church"and yet was sleeping with _Killian Jones_ of all people?

When the priest was out of earshot she gave Will another searching look and asked, "Why are you here?"

He shrugged helplessly, "I don't know. I've just been thinking about it, and I used to go to Mass every Sunday when I was a kid...and somehow I just wound up here today."

Her face softened and she smiled, "Well, this is a church. It's a good place to come when your soul is troubled."

"My soul's not troubled," he protested, even as he realized that was exactly how he was feeling and had been feeling for days.

"If you say so," she said, her eyes flicking to the candles behind him and clearly not believing a word of his denial.

He scuffed the toe of his boot on the stone floor and gave a clipped nod, "Yeah, well, I should get going."

Will pushed past her and headed for the doors, stepping out into the fresh air and taking a deep breath, his shoulders slumping and his hands clenching at his sides. Coming here had been a mistake. Gran was gone, Penelope was gone, nothing would bring them back and he needed to forget and just focus on his new life. Working for Mr. Jones was the ticket to getting everything he could possibly want and he didn't care about anything or anyone else.

_But the girl had been so young. Too young._

"Will."

He hadn't even heard her follow him, she was quieter on her feet than even he was, which was really saying something.

"Miss Swan," he said, turning around again to face her.

"You can call me Emma," she offered.

He had the feeling the boss wouldn't like that very much, "No, I don't think I can."

She came closer. No one else was around, save the cars that were driving by, everyone who had left after the service were long gone. He remembered his gran used to linger and socialize for at least an hour after Mass concluded, while he waited, twitching with impatience and wanting to home and get back hanging out with his friends.

Emma gave him another look that made him feel strangely exposed, as if he was standing naked in front of her. She examined him with narrowed eyes and when she spoke she sounded a bit sad, "You're not like most of the people who work for Killian. At least, not yet. But if you stay in his world, well, it's not just a job, is it? It will consume you, in the end."

He didn't know what the hell to make of that statement but he felt a burst of anger flare up in him and he retorted hotly, "Oh, that's rich coming from you, the little bit on the side he keeps tucked away."

Will regretted the words the instant they left his mouth, if she told Mr. Jones what he'd said the man would probably have his head on a silver platter. The boss didn't seem the type to suffer any insult.

As if she knew what he was thinking Emma sighed and said, "I'm going to do you a huge favour and not tell him you said that."

Oddly though she didn't sound affronted or upset, she merely put her hand on his arm and he immediately felt more calm at the gentle touch.

"I've known him for a very long time, Will Scarlet. I know exactly who he is and what he does. Do you? Do you want to know? Ask yourself that question, do you really want to know everything about Killian Jones?"

The hand was withdrawn and she stepped back and disappeared through the door to the church, leaving him standing on the steps with a sudden chill trickling down his back and her words repeating over and over again in his head.

He did want to know everything about Killian Jones.

_Didn't he?_

* * *

><p>The club was full, but it wasn't packed. There was room for plenty more patrons and they had shown up, but he alway made a point to have some turned away at the door whether they were at capacity or not. It kept the customers slightly on edge, knowing that their money and connections would not be enough to get them in if they were one of the unlucky ones stuck on the wrong side of the velvet rope. Even the very best regulars were denied at times.<p>

When they were welcomed in there was always that slight sigh of relief and they were spurred on to make the most of their visit, indulging in anything and everything they desired, knowing in the back of their minds that the next time the door could be shut in their faces.

Killian was in his office, leaning back in his chair and watching the feeds from the various hidden cameras on his computer screen. Everything was in full swing, the drinks were flowing freely, drugs were being consumed with various degrees of discretion, and money was changing hands in the private rooms, where everything from standard lap dances to full-on orgies were taking place.

All in all, it was a typical Saturday night at his club.

He clicked on one of the feeds, maximizing the window to fill the whole monitor and drummed his fingers on the desk as he watched the scene currently unfolding in room four. A dancer had entered with a customer he'd been waiting patiently for, a semi-regular that he needed to talk to alone. Now he had shown up and was right where Killian wanted him. A grin crossed his face as he stood up from the desk and buttoned his suit jacket, shooting his cuffs and heading for the door.

Killian moved through his club with single-minded purpose. In his peripheral vision he could see everything that was taking place around him, but he was focused only on his goal. The writhing dancers in various states of nudity, the drunk customers leering at them as the music pulsed and the lights flashed, illuminating and concealing, he passed them all by without acknowledgement, only pausing to crook his finger at Scarlet to follow. The man got up instantly from his seat at the bar and fell in step a half pace behind.

"Wait here," Killian said to him when they reached room four. He didn't bother to wait for Scarlet to reply, he simply turned the knob and opened the door a crack. The discrete "occupied" sign was lit but he ignored it and slid in noiselessly, pulling the door shut behind him.

The room was one of the smaller ones. It had a tiny square of a polished dance floor with a retractable pole that faced a wide couch. Music was playing, a dark, grinding beat, and from the shadows he watched one of his dancers bounce and sway on top of a man who was sitting on the couch. The girl's dress was rucked up to her waist and her bare ass was on full display, her lace underwear clutched in the customer's hand and his grunts and groans were audible even over the song coming from the speakers. It was clear that much more than just a lap dance was taking place.

Killian flicked his finger over the panel on the wall that controlled the lights and sound system, turning the music off and the overhead lights on in one swoop. There was a shriek and the dancer looked over her shoulder at him. Her eyes widened and she Instantly got off the customer's lap, ignoring his groan of protest.

She wasn't the most popular dancer in the club but she got around, it seemed every customer wanted to try a redhead at least once. Unlike most of the other girls she didn't go tanning, her skin was pale and slightly freckled. She also didn't wax or shave herself completely bare and there was a strip of auburn left between her legs. The men really liked the visible proof that her hair colour was natural when so much was fake these days.

"Boss?" the girl questioned.

"Go wait outside for a moment, sweetheart," Killian instructed, "I need to talk to this gentleman in private."

She tugged her dress back down and obeyed immediately, slipping out the door without a backward glance. Her customer was fumbling with his pants, trying to cover himself up and looking none too happy about the interruption.

Killian slid his hands into his pockets and leaned his shoulder casually against the wall, crossing one foot in front of the other as he spoke, "I know, it's dreadful bad form to intrude on a man in mid-fuck like that, but our business couldn't wait, Mr. Spencer."

Albert Spencer was a successful businessman turned city councillor, a pillar of the community who was very vocal about civic duty and was rumoured to be planning a run at the mayor in the next election. He was also very much married, his perfectly coiffed wife was a fixture in the city's arts and culture scene.

"What business is that, Mr. Jones?" he asked, squirming with discomfort on the couch.

Killian knew it probably drove the man nuts to have to address him formally, but no one was afforded the privilege of using his actual name in his club. It was a reminder, in this place_ he_ was the only one in charge.

"The mayor's gala," he explained, "I wish to attend this year, and you are going to acquire a ticket for me."

Spencer protested immediately, as Killian knew he would, "That's absurd! The gala is for philanthropists, not-"

He held up a hand, cutting Spencer off, "Not for my type, I know. Normally I'd have no interest in attending, but this year I feel I should become more involved in making this city the very best that it could be. Isn't that what you always say, Mr. Spencer? Is that going to be your slogan when you run against Mills?"

Spencer eyed him balefully, "No. It's impossible. I can't be associated with you in public, surely you understand that."

Killian pushed off the wall and took a step forward, looming over him, "I'll cut right to the chase. I don't care how you get it, but I want a ticket to the gala. I will ignore you completely while I'm there, no one has to know of our association. Say yes, and you have three days to come through with my invitation. Say no, and my employee will immediately escort you from this building and you will be permanently banned from the Jolly Roger, and all of my dancers will be forbidden from meeting up with you off the premises, so don't get any bright ideas. They work only for me."

A muscle in his jaw worked and he looked like he was going to say something, but Killian wasn't done and Spencer kept his mouth shut under his warning glare.

"If you get me what I want then a generous contribution will be made to your mayoral campaign, from a company that no one knows I own and it will all appear completely above board to the public. The choice is yours, Albert. Do I send the lovely redhead back in to finish you off, or will my man throw you out on you ass into the parking lot?"

He could feel the conflict in Spencer's soul as he thought it over. There were other gentleman's clubs in the city, but none offered the complete discretion that his did, nor had dancers who were anywhere near the same calibre. The man continued to squirm uncomfortably on the couch, the prospect of being sent away in his current unsatisfied state was obviously not a pleasant one. But using his influence to get a ticket to the mayor's charity gala and accepting a campaign donation that he knew full well was dirty money no matter how clean it would appear were the exact sort of ethics violations he frequently blasted other politicians for in council meetings and in the local press.

When he didn't reply Killian lifted one shoulder in a shrug, "Suit yourself then," and went for the door. He was just about to turn the knob when Spencer called out, "Wait!"

Money, power, and sex. Albert Spencer wanted all three and he had decided to pay the price. He hung his head slightly and wouldn't meet Killian's eyes as he spoke, "I'll get you an invitation. As long as you swear that you won't even look in my direction at the gala?"

"We have a deal. As far as anyone will know, we're complete strangers. I might ask your lovely wife to dance, though."

He smirked at Spencer and was through the door before he could even form a reply.

Scarlet and the dancer were both waiting outside. Killian beckoned the redhead to him and grazed a finger delicately over the swell of her cleavage, "You can go back in now sweetheart. And be sure to show our customer a very good time."

He leaned forward, pushing her hair off her shoulder and she shivered violently when he brushed his lips over her neck in what was almost a kiss.

"You'll do that for me, won't you?" he murmured into her ear.

"Yes, Mr. Jones."

"That's a good girl."

He skimmed a hand down her side and gave her ass a quick squeeze. Her eyes were slightly glazed, pupils dilated to the point that not a speck of colour showed and he knew he'd just sparked a wave of lust in her that she'd be desperate to satisfy any way she could. Spencer was about to have the ride of his life.

Killian opened the door with one hand and guided her back in with the other on the small of her back, caressing the bare skin revealed by the skimpy dress. The door shut behind her and he heard the music start back up a second later.

Scarlet had watched the who exchange without speaking, and he followed silently behind when Killian went back into the main lounge and slid into his booth. A waiter materialized and he ordered them both drinks while gesturing for Scarlet to sit down opposite him.

"Enjoying the job so far?" he asked, leaning back and watching Scarlet's face.

"Of course boss," he answered immediately.

The drinks arrived and he sipped his scotch while Scarlet took a swig of his beer.

"So...have you availed yourself of any of the fine entertainment yet?" he asked, with a nod towards the main stage. He knew for a fact that Scarlet actually hadn't, which was somewhat curious. Most of the men who worked for him couldn't wait to exploit their positions and work their way through the talent.

"Erm, no. Not yet."

He saw Will's eyes flick over to a table where one of the dancers was having drinks with a customer. A pillow-lipped blonde, she was currently sucking on an ice cube and fondling the customer's knee under the table.

"If that's the one you've got your eye on, she has very expensive tastes and won't do freebies," he said, swirling his scotch and raising his eyebrow.

There was a sudden longing on Scarlet's face that he tried to cover up with his beer, lifting it up and taking a long swallow. Killian filed that little tidbit away in his mind, wondering if Scarlet would attempt to impress her with money or gifts. But she was vastly above his pay grade, she had a knack for attaching herself to the richest man in the club during her shifts, and it would be interesting to see how Scarlet's infatuation with her would play out.

He didn't look too happy when she got up from the table with the customer and led him towards the private rooms with her hand brushing against his crotch.

"Back to work now, Scarlet."

He stood up and took his place next to the booth, his eyes still lingering on the door that she had disappeared through.

Killian finished his scotch and the waiter had another on the table before he set the empty glass down. On the main stage a dancer who had almost made it as a professional ballerina was performing, under a blue spotlight in pink pointe shoes and a completely sheer black leotard. He watched her rise up on her toes and lift a leg behind her in a perfect arch, feeling deeply satisfied. Albert Spencer had fallen to temptation and he intended to keep the councillor firmly in his back pocket from now on, and he had got what he wanted, as he always did.

An invitation to the mayor's annual charity gala, where the city's elite would meet in support of many worthy causes, including a little charity run by a certain angel.

_We'll see each other soon, blessed one._

All in all, it was an excellent Saturday night.

* * *

><p><strong>London - 1668<strong>

The arrival of his letter had come as quite the surprise.

She knew he was in the city, their paths had crossed more than once in the past few months. The first time had been startling, when she'd been compelled to look up just as his carriage drove by and she'd seen him pull back the curtain and their eyes had met. He had smiled and winked at her before the coach was swallowed up in the hustle and bustle of the crowded thoroughfare.

London was _bursting_ at the seams, the devastating fire that had swept through and razed great swaths of it right to the ground a few years prior had destroyed thousands of homes that had yet to be rebuilt. The Crown and the city were still locked in disagreement over how best to proceed, and while the architects and the Lord Mayor and the restored Stuart king all argued over the plans she listened to the prayers of the dispossessed, those left widowed or orphaned, the ones who had been maimed and scarred, and answered all she could.

The work filled the hours and she had little time to spare for much else. She was not overly concerned by the presence of the demon nearby, one of many who walked the earth and sought to corrupt the souls of the weak and the desperate. While he could be considered dangerous, the servants of hell and the servants of heaven each knew their place and most practiced simple avoidance as a general rule. There were clashes and skirmishes at time, when one side or the other would strike if the opportunity arose but she had never partaken. Her mission was to redeem and she wasn't a warrior, nor did she have a desire to be one.

Emma was content to simply leave Killian be and assumed he would show her that same courtesy. It seemed to be his intent, he kept his distance whenever they saw each other and although he insisted on winking at her and giving her that knowing smile they never spoke directly.

Until he invited her to dine with him.

_"...when last we met, you stated that you had a debt to me that you wished to discharge, though you already repaid my most generous assistance by bestowing upon me what I requested. Now, I am in your debt, as your hasty departure from my company did not allow for me to offer you anything in return for your kindness. As that is an unacceptable state of affairs for a gentleman such as myself, I wish to invite you to a private supper…"_

She had to read the letter twice, somewhat shocked by the arrogance of his words and the boldness of his request.

"A gentleman...more like the serpent offering Eve the fruit of the forbidden tree."

She propped her chin in her hand and looked out the window of her chamber with his letter laying on the desk in front of her. Was it a ruse, an attempt to lure her into a carefully laid trap? His kind was well known for their deceptions and trickery, after all.

_"I shall await your reply. Though I know your natural inclination would be to decline my invitation, I find that, contrary to my natural inclination, I have faith that you will accept."_

He had _faith_. She ran her finger over the letters, smudging the ink as she muttered under her breath, "The serpent was said to be _subtle_. You, infernal one, are not."

She recognized the attempt to goad and challenge her with her own words. He was daring her to come to him, but for what purpose? Certainly not just for a meal of thanks.

The candles flickered and danced in the dark room as she drew a sheet of paper and began to write out her reply to his audacity. When finished she poured fine white sand over the wet ink to dry it quickly and sat back in her chair.

_Would the fruit be good to eat?_

She looked into the yellow flame and supposed she would find out.


End file.
